‘… I’m not angry at Claire Moore for what she has said and done over the years, I pity her. My intention was always to help a desperate, sad and frightened person in the best way I knew how. I created the support page for her. We fundraised, we counselled, even investigated ourselves, trying to determine who the killer was and then questioned it when it was widely believed that Tommy Kay was the man behind those awful killings in Ireland…’
‘That little fucker,’ Paul said, before catching himself.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, Killian wasn’t lying, but the way he said it, the way he held himself… he made himself out to be my hero, my saviour. What about the letter, what about my poor cat? Before I could vocalise my outrage and shock, Killian was asked a question by an unseen voice behind the cameras. ‘If Claire Moore was here now, what would you say to her?’
As he answered, he looked directly at the lens, his eyes misting over. ‘I would say I’m sorry that she thought I was trying to be anything more than a caring friend. I didn’t mean you any harm, Claire, and the pictures found in my house were only to help with the investigation. To keep you safe.’
‘Mr Jones, do you forgive her for calling you a murderer?’
‘Of course, I do, but it means nothing, unless she first learns to forgive herself.’
Grabbing the remote control, I hurled it at the TV, cracking it diagonally across the middle. Killian’s face was still there, answering a question about what he would do next, but his face was disproportionately shaped in the middle of the damaged screen. Paul jumped up and turned the TV off at the mains.
‘What a fucking shit,’ I said to the floor. ‘What a fucking, fucking shit. How has he got away with what he has done?’
‘I don’t know,’ Paul said as he picked up the remote and batteries which had broken loose on impact.
‘He killed my cat. He’s harassed me, taking pictures of me – why is he being made to look like a victim, my victim?’
I felt as if I might cry, but I had done so much of that lately I forced myself not to. Instead I stood, rage filling my veins, and stalked out of the living room. I needed to throw more things, hit something, so opening the back door, I stepped into Paul’s garden: the usual fear was there as it always was when I stepped outside, especially after dark, but my rage pushed it down. Standing barefoot on the damp lawn I grabbed the first thing I found, a rake that was leaning up against the house, and smashed it into the ground until the forks were bent and broken. Dropping it on the floor, I grabbed a patio chair and swung it wildly at the garage wall, the shockwave that transferred into my hands was so forceful it hurt my fingers. But still, I wasn’t satisfied, and moving to a pot plant I picked it up and threw it in the other direction. It bounced three times before rolling to a stop. Unsatisfied I didn’t manage to break it. Panting, I looked up to the night sky; the moonlight bounced off the clouds that floated in their carefree way, and I despised them for it. A noise escaped from my mouth – a deep, loud cry. The noise forming into two words. I screamed so loud the noise bounced off the clouds above me and came back as a fuck you to myself. And it was a fuck you at me. Fuck you, Claire for surviving, fuck you for trying. But also, it was a fuck you to the one who tried to kill me. Fuck you, Killian for murdering my cat and fuck you to the press for making me believe it was over when he was arrested.
I felt arms around me, Paul coming to rescue his garden from my attack. But I couldn’t stop shouting. Fuck you. Fuck you. He held me tight, so tight I almost couldn’t breathe, and it calmed me enough to realise what I had just done. Letting my legs buckle, Paul lowered me to the damp grass, and we both sat there, his arms around me. Keeping me close, keeping me safe. The rage quickly morphed into a tremble that slipped into a crushing sadness. As it faded, I could see the chaos I had caused.
‘Paul, I’m so sorry.’
‘Hey, don’t be, it’s OK.’
‘I broke your TV.’
‘Yeah, but it felt good, didn’t it?’ he said, smiling over my shoulder, I smiled too.
‘Yeah, it did.’
‘As for the garden – I’m just glad I don’t have any gnomes.’
His comment caught me off-guard and I laughed, as did Paul. And for a moment, we were just two people, sat on a wet lawn, surrounded by mess, laughing. From the outside, it must have looked bizarre, and I loved that he didn’t care. Feeling better, the outburst releasing me from the grip of both the icy hand, we went back into his house. Locking the door behind us, we headed upstairs.
Despite it being only around 8.30 p.m., I felt the need to sleep but wasn’t sure if I would be able to and Paul, as if knowing my thoughts, left for the bathroom, re-emerging with some sleeping tablets. I took them without a second thought and lay down. Paul sat beside me, rubbing my back until I drifted into a medicated sleep.
Chapter 47
3rd October 2018
Daventry, Northamptonshire
Another restaurant, another town, another late night date. Her name was Esme Ormandy. The tenth. And after half a bottle of wine, the questions she asked were so predictable he could have scripted them for her.
‘So, how long have you been single?’
‘About a year.’
‘Do you have any kids?’
‘Yes, one, a girl.’
‘Aww, that’s sweet, what’s her name?’
‘Charlotte.’
‘What are you looking for in a relationship?’
He found it dull. Easy. With the responses he gave he knew she would see him as a ‘great guy’, wondering why he hadn’t been snapped up already.
He wasn’t a great guy, of course. He was selfish. He didn’t ask her about herself; he had no interest in who she was because he knew everything he needed to. She was married, but her husband was a controlling prick. He had recently moved out, but still visited her on a Wednesday evening to have ‘his fix’. He supposed that was why she had asked to meet on Wednesday – she was hopeful, maybe for one night, she could sleep with him instead of her husband. He learnt, just from talking via the dating site that she’d left him, eventually, after a decade of him controlling what she wore, where she went, who she saw. He was the alpha, and she was just his little wife. And now here she was in the big bad world, and it scared her. Although she was interested in him sexually, he also knew she wanted to go back to what was safe. She was more like his mother than any of the others. He felt that she could do well on her own, the way she looked at him, he could see an intelligence he didn’t see in the others. But she was also a coward. He could almost hear her say, as if to justify her husband’s choices, ‘He isn’t perfect, but who is?’ It was this weakness he could exploit. When the time was right, and he would wait for his instincts to tell him when that was. Regardless, he was ready, the route to her house mapped. The location of the substation determined.
With each kill it was getting easier and easier to prepare. It was almost a shame he would stop soon.
He and the tenth enjoyed a meal, a bottle and a half of wine between them, all but one glass she consumed, and just as he was about to wrap up the evening, before it wandered into the territory of her thinking they might go home together, she talked about Claire Moore.
‘What do you think about what they’re saying about her now?’
He wasn’t aware of anything new. The last he heard, Killian had been released because they knew the real Black-Out Killer had never been never caught. Thanks to him and the photos he’d kept for so long.
‘I don’t watch the news often. Too depressing. What have they said?’
‘That she used Killian to get back into the limelight.’
‘What? Why would she do that?’ he asked, confused, his blood stirring.
‘You know how it is now for killers and victims and those types. Probably a book deal in it for her.’
‘You think she is after money?’
‘Maybe, that’s what it says online, anyway.’
He nodded agreeably, passively,
but a fire burnt inside. They were vultures, after his scraps of meat, and when there was none to have, they made up things about Claire Moore. She was only trying to survive, and people like Killian Jones were the ones trying to cash in. As he ordered dessert, the tenth allowing him to choose for her, the fire inside him raged. Just like the homes he had burnt.
As he said goodnight to the tenth, kissing her softly on her cheek, he could see the disappointment in her lonely eyes. He knew she would go home, and more than likely message her husband out of neediness. Although she was attractive to him, he couldn’t indulge, even though he’d considered it.
Back at his car, he Googled Claire Moore, the first hits being familiar ones about their night. Scrolling down his Google search he saw a new article posted in one tabloid he hated dearly. Usually he didn’t have time for anything printed by those morons – his preferred manner to learn how the world perceived him was through the BBC. But seeing Claire Moore on the front page of this trash piqued his curiosity, and he had to read.
The picture they used was one of her in a car beside her mother. Looking closely, he could see it had been altered. Her eyes had been darkened, and pushed deeper into their sockets, they had thinned her nose and her smile had been digitally widened. They had intentionally made her look malevolent. He read what they had printed about her, and he felt enraged by what they had said; the lies they told. They labelled her an attention-seeker, a Z-list celebrity, robbing people of their hard-earned money. They wrote about how she had been receiving gifts from a support group founded in her name for ten years by the now-vindicated Killian Jones. He read that she went on holidays using the money given to her from the support group, playing a victim to travel the world. But he knew it was nonsense. Besides being at her mother’s, and that one trip to Ireland, Claire Moore had been nowhere. They quoted Killian Jones, misquoted probably, saying he hoped she could forgive herself for what she had done.
They painted her as a monster. They made her into something she wasn’t, the liars. He needed to shift the focus from her once more; protect her once more, meaning he would have to kill the tenth sooner rather than later, sooner than he planned. He knew the tenth would go home and think about him, but possibly text her husband to come over, and that meant he wouldn’t do it tonight. He could end both of them; it would be just like the old days in Ireland. But he wouldn’t want to confuse his new message, his new reasoning.
Although some trashy magazines were talking about Claire, most were focusing on the connection between the latest victims. Now they knew it was really him. They had discovered that the women were separated from abusive husbands. The men themselves, publicly shamed. No heroes in the press. Only victims and villains. Just as he wanted. As for the few who were talking of Claire so venomously, he knew how to combat it – he would kill the tenth quickly after the ninth. With wide gaps between kills, people tricked themselves into feeling safe. He would take that last thread of comfort from them.
After driving back to his house he quietly checked the contents of his rucksack, knowing it was already packed and in order. As he lay on his bed he visualised his approach: first stop the sub-generator, then the mile-long walk to her house. He saw himself enter though the back door, see to her dog, if he needed to, and then end her life. He wouldn’t do it tonight, he wanted to savour the moment a little, sleep soundly as he did before a kill, and tomorrow, he would claim his tenth.
And then the headlines wouldn’t be about Claire Moore, their slanderous tones dulled by his work. The photos of the fourth, fifth and sixth victims from Ireland would be left behind for them to discover.
He would keep the last picture in his collection, the one he treasured the most. For now.
Chapter 48
4th October 2018
Ely, Cambridgeshire
Several days of self-medicating on Paul’s sleeping tablets meant I was feeling more and more foggy each morning. But I didn’t mind, I enjoyed the numbness that came with it. It did mean however, when I woke in his bed, it took me more than a moment to work out where I was, and why I wasn’t at home in my bed. Then, as the questions slowly answered themselves, the icy hand awoke, and as groggy as I felt, it tried to play its tune. It sounded as distorted as the image of Killian after I smashed Paul’s TV. Rolling onto my side took more effort than it should, and once I completed the gargantuan task, I was facing Paul’s bedroom window. The sun was already high in the sky, and glancing to his beside clock I saw the time. I had been asleep for nearly twelve hours.
I swung myself up into a sitting position, and gingerly rose to my feet, my head swimming. I wasn’t thinking properly and as I heaved myself upright, I placed most of my weight on my damaged foot, causing pain to shoot through me – I fell to the floor, banging my elbow on the radiator. Cursing myself, I got up, put my weight on my left, and walked slowly towards the bedroom door, feeling like I had the worst hangover in history. I called Paul’s name as I descended to the kitchen, but I didn’t need to. The house felt silent. The kind of silence where the air was noticeably still. I was alone. Making a cup of tea to hopefully settle my churning stomach I saw a note by the side of the mug tree.
I had to go back to work early. I’m sorry, I hate leaving you. I’ll be back later tonight.
I don’t know why, but for a second it disappointed me that he hadn’t put me first. Then I metaphorically slapped myself for thinking it. I reminded myself that life must go on.
Putting on the radio, George Ezra played, and grabbing my coffee I walked to the back door, opened it and breathed in the morning air. I wanted to step outside, enjoy the cool ground under my feet, but I couldn’t. The garden still bore the scars of my outburst two nights before, making me feel embarrassed. I almost plucked up the courage to step out and try fix the mess I had made, but was stopped as I heard the pulse of my phone vibrating. It wasn’t in the kitchen but somewhere downstairs, and I moved into the lounge where the pulsing was louder. Before I could grab it from the coffee table, it went silent, and I saw I had four missed calls from Mum. I went to ring her back, but noticed I had several messages, voice and text, and lots of Facebook notifications. As I held the phone in my hand another message popped up from Facebook, then another. Something was going on. I panicked all over again, and the rising sickness returned – had he killed again, and so quickly?
My phone rang in my hand, the display telling me it was Mum. I couldn’t pick up. I didn’t dare. I didn’t want to know. Whatever was happening, I couldn’t change it and for once I wanted to remain ignorant to it all. I didn’t want to know he had killed again, I didn’t want to find out who the victim was or how similar we were. I couldn’t shoulder the responsibility. Mum tried to call back again but again I couldn’t answer. The third time I knew I needed to because she would worry if I didn’t. As I picked up, the words caught in my throat.
‘Claire? Have I woken you?’
‘No, it’s OK. What’s happened?’
‘You sound tired. Did you not sleep well?’
‘Mum, what’s happened?’
I heard her sign on the other end of the phone.
‘Just stay offline, OK?’
‘Has he done it again?’
‘Oh, no, love, nothing like that.’
I brought my hand up to my face to clamp down the sob that tried to escape. I had to hold my breath for a moment.
‘Claire? Are you there?’
‘Yes, I’m here,’ I said eventually. ‘What is it? Why should I stay offline? Has Killian said something?’
‘Nothing since his fifteen minutes of fame on TV. The little shit!’
‘Paul said something similar. I can’t believe it. If it isn’t him, what is it about, what’s happened?’
‘It’s…’ She hesitated, trying to find the words. ‘It’s, well, the media are just being the media. It’s nothing really, I don’t want it upsetting you. Do you want me to come over?’
I wasn’t sure why she would call me to tell me about staying offline
because of the media. We were used to them hounding us. Her need to call me repeatedly meant something else was going on.
‘Are you sure that’s all it is, the media?’
‘Yes. It’s nothing really, I was just worrying, that’s all.’
‘OK?’
‘Shall I come over later perhaps, for lunch?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘OK, see you later.’
Mum hung up, and I stood bewildered. It was unlike her to warn me about things, and to be so vague. Telling me to stay offline, when she knew I tried to anyway, seemed odd. What on earth had happened?
The phone pinged again, another Facebook notification, and ignoring my mother’s warning I opened the app to see a string of messages posted in the CMSP group page. They started to flood in just after 9 p.m., when I was already in a medicated sleep.
Claire, don’t worry about what they’ve said, who reads their crap anyway?
Claire. I think it’s unfair what they have done. Just hang in there, kid.
Killian was out of order saying what he said. We know you aren’t like he suggested, that’s part of the reason we kicked him out of the group.
This makes me so angry. How dare they print that? Ignore them, Claire. They are just desperate to sell their magazines. Everyone knows they are full of shit.
Claire, I’m a solicitor. What they’ve said is slanderous. We will fight this, get a retraction and an apology. By the time we are done with them, they won’t want to print another word about you ever again.
What the hell had happened? Going to Facebook Messenger I saw Wendy had been in touch. Reading her message, at first I felt shocked, then sick, then angry. I didn’t message back but opened the Safari app and searched for the Nation’s Choice, the magazine that had written to me. They were a trashy weekly that had headlines about people meeting aliens and marrying Elvis and other such nonsense. Their reputation wasn’t exactly glowing, and I was fairly sure no one would take them seriously, and yet, as the page loaded, and I saw what was on the cover of this week’s edition, I couldn’t stop myself from crying. Because there I was, smiling at the camera: the picture taken of me weeks ago when I went out with Mum and wanted to appear like I was handling it. They had edited me to make me look like a ghoul, grinning maniacally at the camera. They wrote underneath: ‘The Black-Out Killer is back, and Claire Moore is cashing in.’ Beside the huge, altered picture was a smaller one of me, also taken when I was out with Mum. My sunglasses on, my head back, trying to relax for the first time in for ever. The two pictures depicted me as someone happy, at peace, when I was anything but, and that my happiness came from Killian’s misfortune.
Closer Than You Think Page 23